


Cypress

by gentle_herald



Category: Henry V (1989), Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: A bit of the plot is taken from My Last Duchess by Robert Browning, Abusive Relationships, F/M, French Swearing Courtesy of Shakespeare, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald
Summary: Years ago in Italy, Montjoy arranged a marriage between an abusive man and a very young woman. The guilt lingers for a long time.





	Cypress

He was a young messenger when he traveled to Florence and took service in the Count's household. The man was a widower with a daughter: the kind of man who seems generous and erudite at first, at least to a young man from Amiens.

Montjoy still hates cypress trees. They grew around the Duke's palace; when he tore his eyes away from the portrait of the man's wife there they were, marching away in perfectly controlled lines. Everything in that marble tomb of a palazzo was artfully manipulated, except the last Duchess. Even the last Duchess, depending how you looked at the situation. She hung there helpless on the wall, glancing at him with a soft smile that did not comprehend how any man could feel he had a right to her soul. When the Duke covered her portrait, Montjoy did not know whether he felt relieved or even more sick. It was only an image, but the importance the Duke gave it made it feel like much more than a symbol. It was all that remained of Lucie; all that had any hope of being freed. Her innocence was an accusation and Montjoy was complicit in her murder because he knew. Irrational, yes, but the Duke's masterful storytelling never failed. The man must know exactly what reaction he was getting from Montjoy.

When he returned to the Count, dizzy from the heat and jittery from being hemmed in by those spy-like trees, his first thought was to warn him of what awaited his daughter. His next thought was to go to Caterina and tell her what she would have to do to survive in the Duke's household.

The Count was not surprised. He was not even concerned, and Montjoy found himself improvising reactions to keep his master's attention from his disgust at what seemed to be normal here in Florence. The centre of the arts, of a new life of science unimaginable in France, apparently accepted what a man could do to his bride on the slightest whim.

Panicked and away from the Count's aristocratic calculations, he tried to speak to Caterina. But the Count suspected him already; the Count kept his daughter far away from any man as radical as Montjoy had revealed himself to be. He was right, Montjoy thought as he left the Count's service the day after the wedding. I wouldn't have just told her what could happen. I'd have told her to get to the nearest convent and take any vows that would keep the Duke's hands off her.

He never hears what happens to Caterina. He makes a point of never hearing, and the shame of knowing and being too afraid to confront it will stay with him.

There are years, and ships, and enough sand to grind away any memory, but the reason he is travelling never leaves him. When Montjoy returns to as France he is an exotic curiosity and the young princess, Catherine, is awed. She is a tiny girl, and he takes her under his wing unconsciously. She is one of the few things that tie him to this cold, scheming country that is so different from the fierce light and learning of Baghdad. He misses his friends from a country his compatriots call an infidel land to be exterminated. When Catherine and the Sorbonne aren't enough of a tie to remain in Paris any longer, he accepts a diplomatic mission to Castile. There, he finds half of the world he learned in the East and half a ruin.

Unless he can find a way to return to the Near East, he will have to put it behind him. He is a grown man now, and the weight of that prompts him to return to France and formally swear fealty as a herald. There is a sense of responsibility setting in; of denying himself the freedom to wander and learn and gaining self-respect in the process. The next month, he sets out for Budapest.

Over the next few years, Montjoy would travel where he was sent by the King and increasingly by Charles d'Albret, the Constable. As King Charles' bouts of madness grew increasingly frequent, Catherine was more and more desperate for his company when he returned home. And so Montjoy gained a daughter, though he would never have presumed to claim the title of adoptive father. He was a loyal man – to his princess, to his king, to France.

Diplomacy grew more frantic; France grew more vulnerable.

 

Harry of England is the most dangerous man in Europe. He is proud, calculating, and has a name to earn. Montjoy hopes he understands the man well enough to predict his movements after only two meetings. Two very informative meetings.

Here is a king who learns his servants' names then hangs an old friend on principle, feeling be damned. Here is a king who lounges coiled on his throne and turns a juvenile insult from France on its head, proving how dangerous it is to pull the tail of the Lion of England. Here is a Welsh king, a young king, a charismatic and ruthless king.

It is very dark the night Montjoy realizes that Henry will marry Catherine. The rain is stabbing down, beating the long grass flat and filling horses' tracks with icy water. The morning will show a muddy hellscape. Montjoy rides back from the English lines with rainwater dripping from his eyelashes, but he can see the future clearly enough. His Catherine will go to the invader if the invader wins. Montjoy wonders for a moment why he is so sure that the invader will win and what that says about him as a French herald. Then the uncertainty passes. Henry must win. No king who God does not smile upon could lead his men like that. Then Montjoy wonders what that says about God. What that says about France. Have they fallen so low that even St. Denis cannot intercede for them?

On the road, Montjoy does not hear from Catherine for months at the best of times. In war, she is silent and enclosed somewhere; shielded behind castle walls, practicing her English. Brave, clever girl. She knows which way the tide is turning without being told. It is in her ladies' faces, in her brother's absence, in the castle's hollow echo.

Foutre, she says under the guise of a mispronounciation. Foutre this situation, foutre her future in the court that used and abandoned her sister, foutre the man who has destroyed her family and country. Foutre this choice that will not be a choice.

The only message Montjoy can send to her after Agincourt is one line: Henry loves music. Do with that what you will. Catherine takes out her harp and begins to play. Now, survival is a kind of fight. There is no longer any shame in pleasing Henry, though there is a death of pride. Strange how those two can be divorced. One, an error committed. The other, a feeling lost. There is a space between them that she is learning to occupy. She picks at a Welsh Harp. She is learning.

Catherine knows more English than she will show. She sits passively as Henry talks down to her in English when she knows full well that he speaks courtly French. She forces him to translate brokenly through Alice; if he thinks her stupid then she will feign ignorance. She will make this as difficult as possible for him without his noticing. Slowly, she warms. She will have to move to the next stage soon, and that is making this future as pleasant as possible for herself without forgetting why she is Henry's bride.

He is a handsome man and courteous enough in bed. Though he protests that he is a soldier and poor with words, he is eloquent. When Catherine relents and speaks English flawlessly, he shows no surprise at how quickly she seems to have learned. Maybe, she thinks, he knew all along. The thought raises him a little in her esteem. At least he did not force her to admit that she knew.

Catherine bears a son: this is unremarkable. She survives and the boy is healthy: that is to be commended. Henry is attentive but not solicitous. She is the honoured queen of England and, she never forgets, of France. Her son will be King of France, and yet she spends hours agonizing over the question of how much she still owes to France and how much she is permitted to take for her own happiness. Does she wish that she was a country duke's husband somewhere in France with a son who would be a knight and no more? If she was, would France still be able to hold itself with pride? Where is her wastrel brother? Where is the Duc of Orléans? What of the Constable, dead at Agincourt? Can these ghosts permit her happiness in exile?

 

Henry is in France again when Catherine takes a lover. Owen Tudor is a courtier from one of the great families of Wales. He is kind and gentle, so she tries not to think whether he is using her body or her riches, though she is careful not to show him any undue favour. When she is too happy in love, Catherine forces herself to remember the late King Richard, her sister's husband. He was permitted his liaisons, for a time, but Isabella would never have been. Despite Catherine's caution, they are found out.

In France on campaign, Henry is taken aside by his royal brother the Duke of Bedford. "Your wife," he says under his breath. "The queen was taken in adultery. She must be executed."

What is it that moves Henry to mercy? There was none for the French prisoners at Agincourt, and little for the people of Harfleur. Does he think of love denied and duty followed? Does he care for the hypocrisy that would give a king a mistress but not a queen a paramour? Or is he simply a decent man, however you define that?

Montjoy is at his elbow when he receives the news. "Send her to a nunnery", Henry says. Montjoy's body relaxes and he keeps close to the King as they walk away.

"I would not have asked you to grant her life - "

"I know. You are too honourable and she has broken the law. But sometimes a king does not need to be asked to know what a man is thinking. Sometimes mercy is in order, for more people than one."

They walk on, winding through the camp as is Henry's habit. Here and there, he stops at fires and exchanges a few words with his captains; greets his men. Montjoy follows in turmoil.

It all fits too neatly: Caterina who could not escape to a convent in time and Catherine who was sentenced there. Caterina who was bright and open and honest and who walked into the trap of a brutal husband; Catherine who feared the worst, who planned and survived and was surprised by mercy. Montjoy who failed them both by doing the same thing. Make no mistake, he tells himself. Catherine was saved through Henry's kindness, not your action. This time, he was too afraid and too self interested to take a stand. Before, he was inexperienced and idealistic. He has not learned, and yet by the grace of God Catherine will be safe.

What did Henry mean about mercy? Who besides Catherine deserves it? Montjoy wonders if he knows. He wonders who this man is that Catherine risked her life and throne for. Does she love him? Will he abandon her? Be free, he wants to say. When you take vows you die to the world, but you can come alive to yourself. You are not bound by duty anymore. Be happy. Goodbye.

Instead, he writes a few inadequate lines that night and wonders if they will be allowed to reach his princess.

Who else needs the mercy Henry spoke of? Someone else who married for power, someone who knows what he is thinking without needing words. The King has a habit of talking about himself as if he were not present to test plans on the soldiers as if they came from another prince, another man.

Montjoy wonders if this was Henry's veiled admission that he, too, has desires not fulfilled by a political match. That he, too, wishes for the chance to seek love. If it is, Montjoy will hold himself more aloof than ever. Not for too long, but long enough that affection is not a gift in gratitude. And he can't bear the thought of sleeping with the same man as Catherine did, no matter that she did not choose Henry. Montjoy wonders if he will ever be able to go to Henry because of that. He feels faintly sick.

He wishes Henry would say something definite; he is afraid that Henry will make a declaration. He is afraid of having to deny the King and lose the man's company.

Henry, thankfully, makes no further advances. Nearly two months later, the English camp, deep in France, receives word that Catherine has entered a Benedictine convent. She cannot take vows because she is married, but she has sworn to live by the nuns' rule all the same. It is to be as if she had died to the world outside the nunnery's walls. Montjoy is by Henry when he receives the news. It is impossible to tell whether Henry feels regret over this; whether he misses his wife or is angry at her betrayal. It is also impossible to tell if he is relieved.

 

Four months after that, Catherine bears a son and Henry sits down heavily when he hears the news. He says, "Did she really hate me so much?" He is very white. Noblemen open their mouths in unison to commiserate, to attack Catherine. "Leave me," Henry says quietly. In shock, they file out of the room and down the hall, holding back their gossip until they are around the corner. At a glance from Henry, Montjoy remains.

Outside the castle window, dusk is pooling under the trees and a swan glides to the lakeshore. This is a fortress, commandeered by Henry's army but strangely luxurious and calm. Montjoy squints more closely and sees that the olive-green column-like trees that march along the base of the courtyard wall are cypress. He shivers: a reflex worsened by thinking of Catherine.

Behind him, Henry asks: "What is it?"

Has it been long enough? Is Owen Tudor's child enough of a separation between Henry and Catherine that Montjoy can offer himself to Henry without guilt? Has it been too long - has Henry's interest passed? What if Montjoy loves him but is not loved in return – is he still willing, then?

Montjoy turns. "When you sent Catherine to the nunnery, you seemed to say that both she and you might love again."

"Is that what you took from it?"

"Was I wrong, your Grace?"

"No."

"Did you love her?"

"I will not dishonour the woman who was my queen by answering that."

Fool, Montjoy calls himself bitterly. A herald should know better than to pose an impossible question.

Henry says, more gently: "She is a great princess, but I cannot claim to own her soul. Maybe she could have loved me if she wasn't forced to wed. But come, Montjoy: she broke our bond first, and now I am free. Come to me?"

There has been no time for adequate thought, analysis, or planning. Montjoy opens his mouth to make some cautious response and loses all composure.

"She was like my daughter. She was so brave, trying to please you and stay safe and do what she could even though France was burning around her. And I couldn't protect her. I couldn't protect Caterina either – she was forced to marry a man who killed his last wife because she would not worship him. Catherine was almost the same – and I don't know if I can touch you without thinking of her. I don't think I can." He is shaking; his eyes ache with unspilled tears. "Why must I love the man who invaded France and hurt my princess? Why did you make her marry you and throw this between us? Why is she in England alone in a nunnery while her lover raises one of her sons and the other is alone in a castle? Why does everything have to be so hard?"

When Henry takes a step forward, Montjoy folds into his arms and buries his face against the king's chest. He strokes Montjoy's hair; whispers, "I must be Henry to you now." Montjoy sobs, struggling against himself, wrenching his face back into some correct mask. "Montjoy, I – I ask forgiveness. What strong kings do in the course of war is not what good men do to their families. Catherine is a princess, so I married her. She is a lady, so I did not kill her. That is all I could do, and I loved you even then. But I would never have shamed her by lying with anyone else. Is that enough, Montjoy? Here is all I can offer in my defense: I gave her as much respect as I could."

Montjoy looks Henry in the eye with a wholly unexpected steel. "It will never be enough: she was born to make a choice that could not be a choice. And you made it all worse by attacking."

There is an awful gulf between them, as cold and storm-ridden as the Narrow Sea. Montjoy cannot see his way through the morality of it, and Henry has run up against a hard wall where choices made in politics cannot be excused. They stare at each other with a sense of loss. Montjoy is ready to take his leave and go back to being a distant, professional herald. Henry would let him go out of guilt.

Montjoy wonders why he has been so angry with this unconventional, daring king. Did he not make his peace with England's cause years ago when he took on Henry's colours as part of the treaty? England and France made one. Of course, that means France will be erased, but still: he has accepted that and served the king that caused it happily. Is it possible to love thine enemy with anything more than the basic love owed to all humans?

It is too late; they are both too tired. But if he leaves now, Montjoy will never find his way here again. Desperately, he kisses Henry: a very gentle touch. Henry wraps his arms around Montjoy's waist, holding him close and kisses back, hard. Is this how love works – against all reason, and judgment, and the laws of men? More than anything else, Montjoy is comfortable where he is. Comfortable and secure and wanting more, so when Henry steps away and goes to lock the door he is expecting something rather different than what happens next: Henry waves him to a chair, sits opposite, and pours wine for both of them. In the end, Montjoy is relieved at what does happen. There will be time for tenderness later, when guilt in not in danger of working its way in and ripping them apart.

They talk politics until dawn.


End file.
